


Before the other shoe drops

by Experimental



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Drinking, Hotels, Kissing, M/M, Sarcasm, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-17 17:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13663863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experimental/pseuds/Experimental
Summary: Mickey Crispino was the last person Christophe expected to see on the other side of his door.To be fair, Michele wasn't expecting to see him either.





	Before the other shoe drops

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Halrloprillalar (prillalar)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prillalar/gifts).



> A _very_ belated Rare Ships!!! On Ice fill. But I missed that boat the first time around and just ended up sitting on this for the longest time, so if nothing else, please consider this a thank you for bringing this Christophe fangirl so much reading pleasure in 2017. orz

The thump on the door startling Christophe from his social media surfing sounded distinctly like it was made with the heel of a shoe. But he paid it little mind. Probably just some kids horsing around on their way back to their room—

“I know you're in there, _stronzo_! We need to talk, and I'm not taking one step from this door till I do!”

OK, _that_ sounded as though it might be meant for him. Who it could be, Christophe had a few guesses. What it was about, that was a little less mysterious.

Before he answered, he gave his damp hair a tousling in the hallway mirror, tugged his robe slightly askew for that hard-to-stay-mad-at, just-fucked look. If he was about to be on the receiving end of a tirade he couldn't honestly say he didn't deserve, it wouldn't hurt to give whomever was on the other side of that door one last taste of what they'd be missing.

One person he couldn't think of anything he had done to offend was Michele Crispino, looking like he had just stepped away from something important in his pressed slacks and Bruno Maglis. One of which he had in his hand—and was raising for another knock.

Before he could bring it down, and before other guests started poking their heads out at the commotion, Christophe cinched his bathrobe sash tight and swung the door open. “Christ, Mickey, you trying to wake the whole floor?”

“Giacometti?” Michele rocked backwards. “What're you doing here?”

“This is my room.”

“Uh, no~, it's Emil's. Wait. That _coglione_ in there with you?!”

It seemed Christophe's hope Michele would see the sense in speaking softly was in vain. “No. He's not.” He crossed his arms while Michele tried to peer around him into the room. “You sure you have the right room number?”

In answer, Michele whipped out his phone and flashed his text conversation with Emil in Christophe's direction. Not long enough to read any of it. “He _told_ me he was in twenty-four-ten.” To which Michele added, as if it ought to sort out everything: “This is twenty-four-ten.”

“Oh, I'm aware. Still not Emil's room. He must have hit a wrong key by mistake. Why don't you text him again to make sure.”

“He might have said twenty-fourteen when we talked. . . . Fuck English. I know it had a one and a four in it, alright?”

Christophe leaned closer, studying Michele down his lashes. As if it wasn't clear enough from the flush on the other's cheeks, or that he was only wearing one shoe, there was a familiar whiff of gin and what could only be Campari on Michele's breath.

Negronis. Christophe grinned. Josef loved the things. He liked to remind Christophe when he wrinkled his nose that they matched the Swiss flag, as if his sense of patriotism ought to somehow render them palatable. Christophe didn't know anyone else who drank Negronis by choice. Unless they were feeling masochistic. Or pretentious. It occurred to him that he didn't know enough about his Italian colleague to say which applied in this case.

“What're you smiling at?” Michele grumbled.

“You're drunk.”

“No shit. That's usually what happens when you drink.” And _there_ was that combative spirit Christophe found so insufferable. “And you're not wearing any pants.”

“How kind of you to point that out to me. Why not say that a little louder, I think the rooms at the end of the hall didn't quite hear you.”

Chances were good Christophe would be kicking himself for this in about ten minutes, but his respect for Michele as a peer—to say nothing of his sympathy for the poor Nekola kid—got the better of him. He stepped aside, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, come on.”

“Huh?”

“Get your ass in here, Crispino.”

Michele's eyes narrowed in suspicion. What, did he think Christophe was luring him into a trap? “Uh, no thank you, I gotta find Emil—”

“And do what? You going to bang on every door with a one and a four on it till you find the right one, call him an asshole to his face? I'd like to see how well that goes over.”

At least Michele had the wherewithal to look ashamed of himself, but Christophe wasn't taking any chances. Before Michele could come up with another lame barb or excuse, Christophe hooked his arm and hauled him inside the room, letting the door fall shut behind them. “You can thank me when you're sober.”

“You don't even know what I was gonna tell 'im,” came the petulant riposte.

“Trust me, nothing you can say right now is a good idea.” Sometimes Christophe wondered whom he might still be with if someone had stepped in and stopped him from making a drunken ass of himself when he was younger, his head hotter and skin thinner.

Then again, maybe nothing would be different. Maybe those affairs had ended the healthiest way they could—just rip off the bandage, regret squandered chances later. Tell himself it wasn't meant to be and move on. But what was best for Christophe wasn't necessarily best for Michele. “You think you're full of liquid courage, but it's bullshit. Whatever you say to Emil, you're both going to have to live with it, so you'd better make sure you're in a clear frame of mind when you say it.”

“ _Ges_ _ù_ , you sound like my sister. . . .”

“And have you considered maybe she and I know what we're talking about?”

But Michele wasn't paying Christophe's sage advice its due attention. He spotted the glass of wine and open bottle on the nightstand, and made for it.

Luckily Christophe noted his interest and got there first, downing what was left in the glass and moving the bottle out of Michele's reach. “Mickey, you can't just call a guy an asshole and think he's still going to want to fuck you.”

In Christophe's defense, the way Michele had done himself up like a juicy steak, in a slim-fitting wine-colored ensemble that clung coyly to the contours of his chest and rear, no choking cologne to keep everyone but Sara at bay, he seemed like a man who was at least warm to the prospect of getting laid. Not someone who would screech “ _Who said anything about fucking me?_ ” like Christophe had just profaned a sainted grandmother's good name.

Oh dear. So it was this bad. Here Christophe was hoping Michele's drunken bitching meant he had finally figured out that he was the Crispino Emil was interested in. Or realized that his own rudeness was little more than a flimsy veneer of denial. Really, either would be a blessing. It was about time Michele saw what anyone who'd been paying even a little attention had been seeing for months.

But it was becoming more apparent to Christophe by the minute that he had to stop assuming Michele was on the same page as everyone else. Or even reading the same book.

He set the wine bottle on the room's little desk and, like a guard dog, dropped into the chair in front of it. “Look, Mickey. Michele. We've been friends for how many years now?”

“Mmmm, are we friends?”

“Friend _ly,_ then.”

“If 'friendly' is what you call hanging all over a guy's little sister and butchering his language while he's literally sitting right next to you.”

There were a few points in that accusation that Christophe itched to address, but better to stay focused on the issue at hand. Otherwise Michele would be here all night. And there wasn't enough wine left in the bottle for that.

“Let's just get one thing as straight as we possibly can,” he said into Michele's swimming eyes when he sat down opposite Christophe on the edge of the bed. “Are you or are you not attracted to Emil Nekola?”

“No.”

But that was the stubbornness speaking.

“Yes,” Michele sighed. “Damn it, yes.”

“Okay. Now we're getting somewhere.”

“But this wasn't supposed to happen!” And Michele was suddenly very talkative with his hands, one of which his left shoe was still in. “We've known each other for years, and he's always been like this little brother tagging along, looking up to me and Sara. Then this season he shows up, all tall and _strafigo_ with these muscles and charisma and that ridiculous beard that sprang up God knows where from, landing amazing quads left and right, and suddenly _I'm_ the one looking up to _him_!”

That beard that was so ridiculous Michele sounded as though he was as in love with it as he was Emil's quads? “How dare he,” Christophe yawned. “Where does he find the balls?”

“That's what I'm saying! I don't even know how to act around him anymore! Everything's changed, and he has the gall to act chummier than ever, the bastard. I can't even look him in the face now, I either want to hit him or . . .”

“Tear into him like a Christmas present?”

That earned Christophe a glare. Though really, he could have said much worse. “I was gonna say 'kiss him'.”

“So Emil's grown up. Try not to sound so happy about it. You're interested in him, he seems to be interested in you. God only knows why. What's the problem?”

“How is that _not_ a problem? Even if he does feel the same way about me, if we were to become—”

“Lovers?” Christophe helpfully submitted, throwing one leg over the other. “Friends with benefits? Fuck buddies?”

Michele appeared to be trying not to think about it. Or about the shortness of Christophe's bathrobe. And failing at both.

He forced himself to look elsewhere, finally noticed the shoe, and put it down, dangling it between his knees.

“It would change our relationship completely,” Michele said. “It's hard enough that we're friends and competitors at the same time. To go and add affection to the mix? Physical intimacy? Not to mention, we only see each other half the year, and long-distance relationships never work—and would it kill you to put on pants?”

“Again, I'm not sure where the problem is.”

But Christophe thought he had an inkling, even if Michele was doing his damnedest to skate around it. “Maybe _you_ wouldn't get it,” Michele said. “But I don't want to mess with our dynamic. Things are fine the way they are now.”

“Right. It's fine that you treat Emil like you wouldn't treat a dog when you're in public, ignore him one minute, accuse him of trying to get into Sara's pants the next, all so no one will suspect you really want to get into his.”

“I was talking about the conflict of interest! Gah! Why does everything have to be about _sex_?”

Michele muttered the word with such distaste, as if it were an off-color joke he had to act fast to dissociate himself from, that Christophe couldn't play along and let him avoid it any longer. “And now we get to the heart of it: You're a virgin.”

“So? There's nothing wrong with being a virgin.” Though Michele must have thought there was, or else he wouldn't be trying so hard to convince them both otherwise. “Everyone was one once—even you.”

“Ouch,” Christophe chuckled.

“And loads of people don't lose their virginity until after twenty-two. It's perfectly normal. It's not like I'm saving myself for marriage or anything—not that there would be anything wrong with that if I was. I've just been too busy to think about stuff like that, that's all.”

Stuff like that, huh? Christophe tried to keep the grin off his lips. It wouldn't help Michele to take pleasure in his naiveté, even if it was oddly adorable. It'd been a while since Christophe was in his shoes—or shoe, rather. He had to remind himself that the older one got, the more sensitive a subject one's lack of experience probably became.

Case in point: “I don't know why I'm even talking to you about this,” Michele muttered and shot to his feet.

“Wait.”

Of course, Christophe could have just let him leave. Let him run back to the hotel bar and drown his angst in another Negroni. Whatever Michele got up to after, it wasn't Christophe's responsibility.

But Emil didn't deserve that.

“You're right,” Christophe said with an apologetic smile—a genuine one this time, no trace of sarcasm or schadenfreude. Though he did manage to make his apology sound like it was really Michele's fault. “I pushed you to open up when clearly communicating your feelings in words isn't your strong suit. If I promise to be more patient, will you stay? At least until you can walk a straight line.”

“I could _skate_ a straight line in circles around you right now—”

“I'm sure you could.”

Michele didn't move. His stare said he was expecting a catch. “And if I stay till I pass your stupid sobriety test? Then what?”

“Then,” Christophe shrugged, rising from his chair, “I release you to find Emil. And you can tell him how you actually feel, or keep blaming him for all your troubles and make a spectacular ass of yourself. Your choice.”

Michele chewed his lip as he weighed his options, violet eyes turned coyly away from Christophe. The barest tip of tooth showed white against his bronze skin, and for a moment Christophe thought it was kind of a shame, really. There they were, standing toe to toe, Michele practically with a SOLD sticker across his forehead, and could he blame Christophe if he wanted to just reach out and run his hands all over the pristine upholstery while he still had Mickey there on the showroom floor? Christophe almost hoped he would ruin his chances with Emil, just so he could be the shoulder for Michele to cry on. Well, the shoulder for Michele to cry Christophe's name into, anyway, when Christophe made him forget for a little while that Emil existed.

Almost. Christophe wasn't that cruel. Or self-hating. Just that when something pretty was dangled in front of him and he was told he couldn't have it, he tended to take it a certain way: as a challenge. And Michele was rather pretty when he actually shut up and thought things through.

But this was one challenge Christophe knew, for the sake of professional friendships, and his own sanity, he had best let go.

“Where are my manners,” he said, back to being the host. Back to being the wiser, worldlier big brother. “Let me get you something to drink. As long as you're here, you might as well be hydrating.”

He took a step toward the fridge with the intent of grabbing a bottle of water, but before he could get any further, Michele latched on to the sleeve of his robe. The shoe fell from his other hand and he took Christophe by the back of the neck and held him still and kissed him.

It was a rush job, all lips and held breath, lacking in tact and talent, but neither was really the point. It was the desperate act of a man afraid of losing his nerve at any second, a challenge Michele had evidently issued himself and was determined not to wimp out on. Curious to see just where he intended it to go, Christophe relaxed in Michele's hold and let the pressure of his lips lead.

Which was apparently to nowhere fast. Once the reality of what he had done sank in, it destroyed what remained of Michele's resolve. His hand trembled on the back of Christophe's neck and he pushed himself away.

But the narrow gap between Christophe and the bed made it difficult to put more space between them without looking like he was running away, so Michele cleared his throat, eyes darting everywhere but to Christophe's face, and said, “Sorry. Can we just . . . pretend that didn't happen?”

Michele actually apologizing? This _was_ a night of firsts. “Don't tell me that was your first kiss.”

Christophe meant it as a joke. But if the flush spreading across Michele's cheeks to his ears was any indication, it wasn't received as one. “Oh. Oh, Mickey—”

“Shut up!” And Michele poked him in the ribs. Hard enough that there was no way it could be mistaken for playful. “It's not funny, asshole! I'd never kissed another guy before, and you were filling my head with all this garbage about what Emil was going to expect and how I had no experience with this stuff, and if he said he wanted to take things to the next level, would I even be able to follow through with it—”

“ _I_ was putting all that in your head?” Funny, Christophe couldn't remember saying any of those things. Which was a shame. He would have enjoyed it. “What, were me and my no pants and loads of experience making you doubt your manhood?” Was Mickey sure it wasn't the gin whispering sweet nothings in his bloodstream?

“This is serious, Giacometti! And it wasn't actually my first kiss. Okay? I come from a big family and a lot of them are kissers,” Michele mumbled under his breath. “But I know it's not the same. I know those don't count. I know what people say about me and Sara, too, when they think I can't hear, because we're so comfortable with each other. But it's not like that. I mean, yeah, we might be closer than most siblings are, and sure, we've been kissing each other since we were babies, but it's not _romantic_. There's nothing _weird_ between us.”

Not that Christophe would have suggested anything of the sort. He knew how close they were not. “So you've never kissed anyone who wasn't family. Before me, that is.”

“Well, there was this one girl. A friend of Sara's from school. . . . But I don't want to talk about her.”

“Let me guess. She'd come over to 'study', invent ways to get Sara out of the picture, corner you somewhere alone? She probably asked you to teach her how to skate, and once she got you out on the ice, just clung to you and giggled the entire time?”

“How'd you know?” Michele said, wide-eyed. As if he was the only one that had ever happened to. “I guess when you say it that way, I shouldn't have been surprised when she kissed me. I just wasn't as into it as I thought I should be. The whole time it just felt—I don't know—like I was letting Sara down in some way.”

“Because she was your sister's friend, or because you felt you needed Sara's approval?” That might have explained some things where Emil was concerned. “Or was it because she was a girl?”

Michele just threw up his hands in frustration. “The fuck should I know? Obviously I'm way out of my league here and psychoanalyzing my past failures isn't going to help me going forward. What I need right now . . .”

He took a deep breath to steel himself. And though Christophe was expecting some breakthrough or a confession of some deep, personal truth, he wasn't prepared for what actually came out of Michele's mouth.

“I need you to teach me the Ways of Love.”

Christophe didn't know what to say. Not least because he could hear the capital “L” and “W” in Michele's seriousness. Michele looked as though couldn't believe it himself, that he had actually said that out loud and Christophe had heard it and there was no way he would be able to take it back now.

“'Ways of Love'?” Christophe smiled. “Just how many drinks did you have?”

“Believe me, that sounded a lot better in my head.”

“To be fair, everything sounds better in Italian.”

“Except you.”

And suddenly Christophe wasn't feeling too guilty about putting the pressure on. “And what exactly were you hoping I'd teach you?” he said, narrowing the gap between them a step. “How to declare your intentions without being a complete dick?”

Michele backed up until he tripped over his own shoe and his legs hit the edge of the bed. But there he straightened up and stood his ground. “I got that the first couple times, thanks. I was thinking something a little more . . . practical.”

“Practical. Hands-on, you mean. Sorry, Mickey, I'm not interested in deflowering blushing innocents.”

“I'm not looking to be deflowered,” Michele said. Innocent but not blushing. “Not by you, anyway _._ Might as well learn to drive on a Ferrari. But you saw what I have to work with.”

“If you're referring to that kiss . . .” If Christophe could call it that. But after that Ferrari comment, he was feeling a bit more generous. “The first dozen or so are usually awkward and forgettable.”

“You see?” Michele dropped down on the end of the bed with a huff. “This is why I need coaching! And practice. Lots of practice. I don't expect to skate a new program perfectly my first go of it, so why should loveplay be any different? I know I've gotta work at it. I need to go through the motions as many times as it takes until I feel comfortable doing it for real, and if I'm going to improve I've got to have honest feedback—”

“And you thought you could get that from me?” Where did Michele even dig up a word like “loveplay”? _Destiny of Knights_?

“Well . . . yeah. I mean, come on.” Michele gestured down the length of Christophe's body, only just covered by that blue robe, as if that ought to do all the explaining for him. “You're Christophe fucking Giacometti.”

“The Ferrari of figure skaters.”

Michele's glare said he already regretted making that comparison. “I don't know if the whole 'sex on ice' thing is just an act or not, and honestly I don't care. I could use a huge dose of that confidence right now. Because you're right, okay? I do doubt myself. And I'm afraid I'm gonna fuck this up because I don't know what the hell I'm doing.”

“Nobody knows what they're doing their first time, Mickey. That's half the fun of it.”

Michele, however, would not be so easily dissuaded. “Please, Chris. Would it kill you to show me a thing or two?” And he must have been desperate to call Christophe by his first name.

But Christophe could hold his ground too. “What about Emil?”

“He's the reason I want your help. Look, you can tell me to go screw myself if you're not interested, but it's just kissing. Right? I just want to learn your technique. It's not like there has to be anything deeper to it.”

Sure. Christophe had heard that before. Hell, he'd said that before. So he should have known that the responsible thing was to refuse. Make up some excuse—or just say he had no patience for this game. Michele could handle the disappointment.

But, unsure how much longer he'd have to endure Michele's company, Christophe had his pick of ways to spend it. He chose the option that wouldn't bore him to tears.

“Scoot up,” he told Michele.

Who did as told, moving to the middle of the bed and sitting there cross-legged and ramrod-straight, ready for his first lesson.

“You want to impress Emil,” Christophe said as he followed on his knees, “then let's be sure to knock his socks off. But this isn't Singles. I need you to meet me halfway or it isn't going to work.”

As he sat back on his heels, Christophe was well aware how the hem of his robe splayed enticingly across his bare thighs.

So let Michele be enticed. He wasn't even pretending not to stare anymore. “Of course. Got it.”

“Do you?” Christophe took Michele's chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted his head up. Smiled at the way Michele hurried to meet his gaze, as though just remembering where his attention was supposed to be. The edge of Christophe's thumbnail dragged across his lower lip, the flesh flushing in its wake. “Kiss me like you want to kiss Emil.”

“But that's the problem—”

“Stop overthinking it. This isn't a competition. There's no judge here, no score. Just . . . relax. Do what feels good. For the next few minutes, this is the only pressure I want you to feel.”

And Christophe kissed him. Like he was tuning a guitar, he plucked Michele's lips nice and easy, taking his time with it. A little adjustment each time, searching for that pressure point or that angle that made Michele hum beneath him, that got him out of his head. Then, once he found it, on to the next, and so on up the scale.

Christophe drank of him deeper, and Michele's eyes fell closed and his nerves began to unwind. Christophe's teeth pulled gently on his lower lip, and Michele's inhibitions lowered enough to let a little moan slip through, even if it was one of momentary discomfort. If it was, it didn't seem to matter. Michele just ran his hand through Christophe's still-damp hair, content to let Christophe spoil his mouth with his skill.

The bitterness of the Campari leaped out to nip at the tip of Christophe's tongue when he curled it between Michele's lips, sticky-sweet vermouth stepping in just behind to the soothe the bite, and Christophe was sure there was a metaphor in there somewhere. He could follow that thread, delve a little deeper, but a tip was all he dared for now. Not just because he enjoyed a slow buildup. He wanted to see if Michele would go looking for more. He wanted to see just how much Michele wanted out of this, out of him, and how much he wanted it.

One thing Michele seemed to want was more beard. He rubbed his fingers over the short hairs on Christophe's chin and the smoother corners of his jaw, searching for something he just wasn't going to find.

So he pulled Christophe back away from him by a handful of hair, and declared “This isn't going to work” like it was all Christophe's fault. “I'm trying, I just can't get into the right mindset. You're just . . . so obviously . . . _not_ Emil.”

Once again, Christophe failed to see the problem. It seemed to him Michele had slightly missed the point of the exercise. “I'm not going to speak Czech for you.”

“If your Czech is anything like your Italian, it's for the best.”

Christophe sighed a warning through his nose. If Michele kept this up, it was going to be a short lesson.

But, not wanting to end a good thing when it had barely had a chance to start, Michele was quick up onto his knees and suddenly very interested in Christophe's undercut. “Also, your hair's too short” was the conciliatory excuse he offered for his break of concentration. He pulled Christophe toward him to rejoin the kiss.

But Christophe pulled back. “So don't touch my hair.” To him, the solution was clear. He took Michele's wrist, prying that hand away from his head, and dragged his tongue up the underside of Michele's thumb, from heel to tip.

Before he could draw it into his mouth, Michele tried to jerk his hand back. As if he were genuinely afraid Christophe was going to bite him. Alright, so that might have been a bit much a bit soon. Christophe could feel the pulse beating fast beneath his fingertips, and caught the nervous bob in Michele's throat.

But Christophe wasn't one to blink first. He placed Michele's captured hand on top of his thigh and released it slowly, daring Michele in a voice heavy with unrepentant consent, “Touch me anywhere else.”

He waited for that hand to slide across his skin and disappear beneath his robe. And it did. Just not in the way Christophe had hoped.

“Why do you have to make it weird?” Michele's hand left Christophe's leg like it was fleeing a hot burner, sliding up under the robe's collar instead, stroking the contours of Christophe's neck and shoulder, his thumb tracing the sinew that ran down to the hollow of Christophe's throat.

“I guarantee you Emil wouldn't think any of this is weird.” With the possible exception of Michele's cockeyed scheme to impress him. “But we can stop if it bothers you so much. I thought this was just meaningless practice to you. I thought you were doing this _for_ Emil.”

That might have been a little harsher than necessary, but it had the desired result. “I _am_ doing this for Emil,” Michele insisted, the defiance that was in his eyes, begging Christophe to refute him, exactly the kind of fight Christophe wanted to see.

Though Michele's touch showed a bit less of that certainty, when he traced the valley of Christophe's sternum. Christophe's chest was smooth, hairless, and perhaps Emil's wasn't, because Michele kneaded him like a kitten, as if wishing he had something beneath his fingers to thread them through. “And you're doing this on purpose,” he accused.

“Doing what on purpose?”

“You know this isn't easy for me. Why do you have to go and be so . . . _you_?”

“I'm flattered you find me so distracting.”

“That wasn't a compliment.”

Maybe not. But Christophe couldn't resist. In lieu of a transmigration of souls, he leaned in again, purring against Michele's cheek: “So suppose you're not here with me. Suppose it was Emil who answered the door after all.” He let his words cling moist to Michele's skin. “Fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a robe. . . .”

“Gee, let me guess where you got this idea.”

At least Michele couldn't see the grin that bit of sarcasm had earned him. “He pulls you close, says he's glad you came. His body's still hot from the steam. . . . Damp. . . .”

“Clean,” Michele sighed. And sure, why not. Whatever did the trick.

“He tells you he was thinking of you the whole time.” Christophe's beard, lacking though Michele might have found it, slid rough against Michele's cheek, his voice thick with thirst, never mind if it was manufactured. Christophe could churn that spirit out with the best of them. “Imagining your hands on him . . . soaping him up. . . . Scrubbing him down. . . .”

For a second, Christophe thought he heard Michele breathe his name. But it turned out to be “ _Cristo caro_ ” instead. Close enough.

“He wants to touch you.”

It took a moment for Michele to realize that wasn't just part of the exercise, it was a question. He nodded. “Yeah,” in case Christophe didn't understand him the first time.

It really didn't matter to Christophe whether he was the one Michele was thinking of or Emil. Eager for the touch of bare skin, he tugged Michele's shirt out of his waistband, and Michele hissed in a breath at the warmth of those hands sliding up his back, smoothing over the bumps of his spine. Slipping beneath the waistband of his pants, just enough to flirt with the cleft of his ass. Michele's right hand found Christophe's neck again, and this time when Christophe leaned back, Michele followed, taking Christophe's head in both hands and kissing him with such enthusiasm Christophe's lip pinched against his own teeth.

Acting on a hunch, Christophe seized him by the back of the thighs and hoisted Michele into his lap. It wasn't difficult. Michele was already halfway there. Still, Christophe was ready for him to call a halt to the whole thing at any second.

But he didn't. It must have crossed Michele's mind that Christophe had presumed too much and reached too far. It did sound as though a protest was forming deep in Michele's throat.

Then the knot of Christophe's sash was pressing against his prick, as hard as he was, and years of pent-up energy came roiling to the surface, looking for an outlet. Since Christophe seemed only to happy to be one, Michele ground down against him, moaned into his mouth, only breaking away to mutter something half-intelligible that might have been a plea or another insult, or perhaps one bleeding into the other.

It sounded raunchy, whatever it was, and Christophe really wanted to hear it. “ _In inglese,_ ” he chastened, pinching Michele's thigh, because if he had trouble following along, what hope was there for Emil?

“Fuck  _inglese_ ,” Michele growled. “I said, it's not a compliment.”

So he kept insisting. But it absolutely was. The kind of compliment Christophe could overindulge in if he let himself. It also wasn't what Michele had said.

What Christophe did understand perfectly well, as he rubbed greedy hands up under those tightly-wound thighs and buttocks, relishing how they flexed and squeezed him in sympathy with his touch, was that Michele couldn't be very comfortable with his slacks pulling taut across his dick.

So Christophe tipped him down onto his back, and went for his fly. It was the least he could do, he figured, after bringing Michele this far.

He didn't think Michele would stop him as quick as he did, with a hand clenched tight around Christophe's wrist. “Don't.” The word almost stuck in his throat.

Christophe recognized the symptoms. The restless jitter beneath the skin, the fear and need swirling deliciously together, pooling behind the navel and thickening the tongue. That feeling he got when he took his place on the ice, before the first note of his music could sound, or a new lover to bed—the feeling you get between stepping off the ledge and falling into space. You only felt it for the first time once. If Christophe envied Michele anything, it was that.

“I'll suck you off,” he said. In Italian this time. That rarely failed to get the desired reaction, in any language.

Michele didn't disappoint. His cock answered all on its own, nudging eagerly into Christophe's hand. And from the shaken look on his face, just the thought of Christophe's mouth around his dick, that same mouth that until just a minute ago had been pressing against his so patiently, might have almost tripped Michele over the edge.

But the way his grip tensed at the offer made it clear: He didn't want Christophe going down on him. He didn't want to be undressed. “Don't,” Michele hissed. And he grabbed at Christophe's robe, pulling him back down like he didn't want to hear another word about it, and wrapped his legs around the back of Christophe's thighs. “Just . . . just don't stop.”

What he didn't want Christophe to stop, he didn't say. Don't stop kissing him? Don't stop running his hands over Michele's thighs, his rear, everything Christophe could get them on? Don't stop Michele from rubbing himself against Christophe like a touch-starved teenager against any surface that would have him?

All of the above, seemed to be the answer, and only too soon Michele seized up around him, gasping against Christophe's cheek. If not for the heel of the shoe he was still wearing, digging sharp into Christophe's left buttock, Christophe might have followed him gladly over that precipice.

Which surprised him. Prickly, priggish, naively sentimental Michele Crispino was the last person Christophe ever imagined would leave him feeling so unsettled. But spent was a good look on Mickey. Cheeks flushed, breath coming hard. Self-righteousness utterly destroyed. In all the time Christophe had known him, Michele had never left it all out on the ice like this.

And if there was one thing Christophe couldn't stand, it was being out-performed. “You're too easy,” he had to dig it in, before extricating himself from the cage of Michele's legs. As if he'd found Michele to be a fifty-piece puzzle when the box had said five thousand.

Michele just flipped him the bird.

Then it all caught up to him. His shameless behavior. That Christophe Giacometti of all people had been a witness to every bit of it. The sticky warmth beneath his clothes. “Shit. . . .” But it was the spot of precome darkening the front of his slacks that flipped the switch from mild embarrassment to existential crisis and, naturally, he blamed Christophe. “Why didn't you stop me?”

“I did try.” Resting his temple against the heel of his hand, Christophe shrugged. “You really didn't want to be persuaded.”

“Well, you should have tried harder! I turn into a fucking idiot when I drink.” Like it was all Christophe's fault for not having known him better.

He had to laugh. “I offered to blow you and you turned me down flat. Honestly, Mickey, if you knew what you were saying no to, you wouldn't accuse me of not trying hard enough.”

“Is that what you said? In your Swiss accent? No wonder I didn't understand you.”

Christophe wasn't buying that for a moment. There was nothing wrong with his Italian. But it was cute how Michele tried to pin the blame on him. Anything so he wouldn't have to admit he was saving that piece of himself for Emil.

Then Michele groaned, truly Shakespeare-level angst this time, and dragged both hands over his face. “I can't go back out there like this! What if someone sees me? What if I run into Emil? Oh God—what if I run into _Sara_?” From the sound of it, he wasn't sure which was worse.

It was tempting to tease him about it further. Take Mickey's molehill mountain and turn it into a volcano. But Michele seemed so convinced his life was well and truly over, Christophe couldn't bring himself to do so.

“I'll lend you something to wear back to your room,” he said instead.

Michele peeked over at Christophe from under his arm. Even now there was reservation in those violet eyes. After everything Christophe had done for him, Michele still suspected a bait-and-switch? “You'd really do that for me?”

“Of course. It wouldn't be the first time.” Christophe assumed the curious look on Michele's face was him wondering who the other times might have been, and if he knew them. “I have a pair of sweats that should fit you,” he said, giving Michele a quick once-over, though it wasn't necessary. His hands had been judge enough of Michele's size. “Just leave your pants on the side of the tub when you're done. I'll have them cleaned and returned to you.”

While Michele tidied himself up in the bathroom, Christophe poured himself another glass of wine and took it with him back to bed. He savored this buzzing restlessness Michele had left him with, like he might the aching tightness in his muscles after a rewarding practice. If it wasn't too late when he sent Michele on his way, he might put some feelers out into the void, see if any of his go-tos were free and interested in a little mutual talking off.

Christophe picked up his phone to check the time—and saw that a text had come in while he had been preoccupied with Michele. Now, this was too good not to mention. . . .

“By the way,” he said, leaning against the bathroom door, “Sara texted me a little while ago, wondering where you were.”

He tried to sound nonchalant, and the casual response he got from the other side of the door was no less put-on. “Tell her you haven't seen me.”

“Actually, I told her you were here. With me.”

“You _what?_ ”

Even though the sound of clothes being pulled on in a hurry should have been ample warning, the door swung open so fast it nearly yanked Christophe off his feet. There stood a glowering Michele, who couldn't have looked more like he was wearing someone else's clothes if he tried. “Why did you tell her I was _here_?”

“All I said,” Christophe said before too much of Michele's life could flash before his eyes, “was that I ran into you in the elevator, looking a little green around the gills, and before we could get to your floor you were sick all over your nice trousers. I couldn't just leave you like that, so I brought you back to my room to clean up and lent you a change of clothes.”

Once he had a chance to think about it, Michele looked rather impressed. “That's actually not a bad alibi.”

“I find the easiest lies to stick to are the ones closest to the truth,” Christophe said as handed Michele his left shoe. “So now when you send that apology text to Emil, explaining why you stood him up, your story will check out.”

The way Michele stiffened at his veiled accusation didn't get by Christophe. But he went back to putting on his shoes as though he didn't know what Christophe could possibly mean.

Well, then. If Michele wasn't going to say it . . . “Sara might have also mentioned you were supposed to meet him at some tapas bar like an hour ago. Only you never showed or, apparently, told anyone where you were going?”

Now _that_ look was one Christophe knew only too well. It was the same look his cat gave him when she knew she'd been caught getting into something she shouldn't have.

Michele dove back into the bathroom, and Christophe knew he was searching his pant pockets for his phone, desperate to find it before Christophe could read his texts.

Christophe cleared his throat, and Michele stared in horror as the other held his phone out to him. “It slid out of your pocket.”

“You didn't—”

“Of course not. It's none of my business.”

Still, Michele felt obliged to offer by way of explanation, “I got cold feet.” And his stare, as he snatched his phone back, dared Christophe to refute him.

“Yeah, well, that's usually what happens when you traipse around without shoes in December.”

That was all Michele needed to hear to blow the last of his suspicions away. “You're a life-saver,” he said. No more sarcasm, no pretensions. “I mean it. I owe you one.”

“Don't fuck this up. Emil's a good kid. He deserves better.”

It took Michele a moment to realize he was dead-serious. Another to understand that was how Christophe wanted him to pay him back. He nodded. “Right.”

Some whim took Christophe before either one of them could reach for the door handle, however, and he snared an arm around Michele's waist and drew him close, stealing one last kiss. One last secondhand taste of Negroni to almost make him change his opinion.

Almost. Christophe wasn't that much of a masochist.

Michele staggered just a step when Christophe released him, slow to meet his gaze, but this time he couldn't blame the alcohol. “And that?”

“In case you do,” Christophe told him. “Or if you ever feel like taking this Ferrari off the lot.”

Michele rolled his eyes. He was never going to hear the end of that. But he couldn't entirely stifle his smile. “In your dreams, Giacometti.”

When the shoe hit his door not two minutes later, Christophe was ready and waiting by it—with the wallet and room key Michele had left behind.

 


End file.
